


(not) side by side

by crystallizedcherry



Series: Spabel Week 2016 [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Day 1: Conflict, F/M, Historical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-24 19:09:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7519798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crystallizedcherry/pseuds/crystallizedcherry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"No, <i>Darling</i>, we've got no each other's back in this issue."</p>
            </blockquote>





	(not) side by side

hetalia – axis powers © hidekazu himaruya  
_the author hereby claims that there was no profit gained in the making, written on entertaining purpose_.

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#

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* * *

 

She once saw a painting in which harp was portrayed as angel’s possession. As if the instrument was heavenly blessed, a bliss descended from heaven; but why only harp that got the chance?

However, above all, since the first time she was introduced to this, thanks to her surrounding and of course those royalty lines who would’t ever distance themselves from music, and dull was the life without having any hour in a day for melody and harmony, she loved it.

Picking the strings, would be a lie if she said that it blew the feel of the heaven those poems had depicted, but still, tranquilizing. As if it could bring back the past whose conflicts had matured her, for the sound was so magical at one time, so serious at the other time. Old stories had been scary future back then, with those marring challenges and heartwrenching slaps, and she still couldn’t believe that she herself was a serious creature who could stand until now. Magically.

And Isabeau played the same song with yesterday’s hymn, after helping to do the chores with his maids in the palace, exactly one month after Antonio’s departure to settle things with Alfonso.

One must say that she did so to shun the loneliness since the only adult she could share anything to was only him and nothing else, but it was not the sole reason.

It was just right to have her time filled by magic.

* * *

Isabeau composed a new song when one of the people he trust brought news that he was coming back home. The result of his mission, however, was undecided. Even the messenger did not have any guts to say anything.

Sure, this was not the biggest conflict Antonio had ever seen, Isabeau understood his history well though since long ago she had been only standing on faraway hills, witnessing her surrounding in silent. _Reconquista_ had been his biggest challenge, and his inner conflict had been the tale he usually whispered to her in their nights when all of the candles were blown out; the only clandestine way he could relinquish the bold chapters of his life.

Yet, the biggest fact of all: Alfonso shared the same blood with him. Was not utterly true when one told that they were twins, but half of it, was agreed by Antonio. Isabeau witnessed and understood that even their relationship was not that silky-smooth that everyone expected siblings to be—but, still, a conflict was not their true intention.

A maid approached her, in between her contemplation of him and his life; also the next song she could entertain herself with.

“Your Highness.”

Isabeau only bowed her head a little with a short hum, “Hmmm?” Informalities, yes, an implication that she was not that sure fit her.

“His Majesty Antonio is coming home.”

Her gaze lingered on the strings. “How far is he?”

“Probably a day or two.”

“And what happened with his effort?”

The maid lowered her head, “We ... are still unsure.”

* * *

He was finally home a day and half, at the night when she thought she should not put more pressure on herself after too much doing things in his place, also the chores as her responsibility.

Antonio caught a sight of her on the staircase. His eyes was a sleep-mourner, his eyesight could scream lament.

“I ....” He took a deep breath. “Don’t know. Alfonso is a hard task to do.”

She held all of that explosion inside her, but she couldn’t contain anything more.

“He is persistent. His people are, too.”

“Then you should stop here. Letting one go form your palace wouldn’t burn the whole of your pride!”

“Talk it to me after you know how it feels to be united with your family!”

“What’s wrong with the people trying to decide their own fate?”

He took strides closer, inches from her daring face. She frowned upon it, keep her mouth shut tight.

“So, _Darling_ , where are you now? His **position**?”

She stomped on the hard, cold floor but he didn’t care the angry sound. “Nothing lasts forever. Brotherhood doesn’t, moreover possession!”

“I don’t possess him. We are _uniting_.”

“ _Were_ ,” sharply she corrected him. And she turned on her heels, while he was balling his fists.

* * *

“Your Highness.”

Isabeau put a pause in her play. Though a little bit annoyed, and being disturbed while playing was the least thing she would like to have, this maid was one of a small amount of servant Antonio trusted; so it must be something important.

Remind her that the third stanza was the last verse of that certain Latin song she had been humming seconds ago.

“Is it about Antonio?”

The maid didn’t dare to look at her eyes. “He has left.”

“Any message?”

“I’m so sorry to tell you that he didn’t tell me anything, Your Highness.”

She turned around to her harp, again. “He is done with me.”

“I’m sorry, Your Highness, I’m perfectly sure that he just needs the time of his own.”

Isabeau’s smirk was devilish enough for her, whom the maid knew as innocent and sweet woman as in sugarcoated fairytales of Habsburg told. “He just can’t stand me. His empire is breaking down and now my stance is not perfectly by his side. Not really surprised that he is so frustrated.” She flicked the shortest string. “He thought that I am the only one who would stand for him whatever it is, in any kind of storm and cruel wave, whatever he said I would follow, anything he commanded I would gladly obey ... but I’m myself ....” suddenly her tone fell into something deeper, a glint of sorrow—or only the maid felt so?—could be heard and she was aware of it, slowly faded it down with plucking her harp rather aggresively. “... And I have right to state whatever I feel or think. He is to greedy, sometimes—and even though I treasure him so much, I hate this side of him.”

Still hiding her face, the maid nodded hesitately, “Yes, Your Highness. I don’t think you are wrong.”

And she glanced, “So can you please leave me alone? I’m currently working on a song.”

“Pardon me, Your Highness. You may now have your private time. Call me anytime.”

Isabeau sighed.

Deep—

—and hollow.

* * *

That maid paused for a while when she found out Isabeau’s private music room was open despite the absence of light. She almost shut the door if the sobbing emerging from the corner was fainter. She gripped the handle tight, whether to reach her  _Your Highness_ or not was her dilemma,

but she ended up leaving as if she wasn’t around.

One-two-three steps futhert from the room, she heard something she couldn’t be sure of,

“ _Antonio_ ....”

When two people were on the different sides, who would cross first; if each had his or her feet planted deep in the ground?

* * *

She dreamt of kissing her own palm, a faint whiff of oranges from Aragon and the smell of fresh-baked bread she had bought not too long ago in Alcazaba were there, and she suddenly missed the feel of traveling all around his empire, ended up in Gaelic land—

—when she woke up she felt the urge to do it all alone, by herself, by her own private carriage and old tunics, without anything indicated that she was a part of the Habsburg; _a part of him_.

Was that a part that she began to draw herself further away from him?

But she couldn’t stop.

Isabeau wanted to.

This palace was full of sorrow and he was not here for weeks—months maybe, for she lost track of time—but it didn’t the most important matter.

She heard a song.

She listened to it carefully, trying to separate which one was dream, the recorded song in her mind, or it might be a reality?

“From what I know, _Precious Lady_ , this piece is not a song of devotion. Or a lively one. Deep sorrow, it is indeed.”

Where she lay was not her room, she realized. Isabeau found herself on the table, crossed hands as the pillow and the siren call waking her fully was his weirdly crisp laugh and her own song following it. It was so alien to listen to her own composing with the other hand plucking the strings for it, she couldn’t feel the bitterness she had poured; the real intention as the basic why she put the song into creation.

“The problem is _you_.” She sighed, stretching her arms forcefully.

Isabeau witnessed Antonio caressed his marred hand, and an open wound left her gasped silently on his back of hand.

“I’m broken.”

“So am I.”

“Ameixial,” he whispered. His eyes were so dull, albeit his very-close position to the biggest candle in the room. “Ameixial Battle—and I know he is leaving. I’m weak; I’m broken—shattered!” thus he played a part with true emotion, catastrating her composition.

“Then you are!” she yelled in trembling, hoarse voice soaked in blues. “Why can’t you accept yourself being weaker? Is it a nightmare? It is. Yes, it is! Nightmare is also a dream; and for a daydreamer like you, it is a consequence!” her confiscated emotion was playing around, resulting in her hitting the table that startled him a lot.

He stood up with both hands on his side, balled red, “I can’t believe that I’m beaten by the woman I thought would defend and comfort me the most!”

“And I can’t believe that the man I hoped would stand strong in every storm and rainbow and flood and merry is weaker than I am!” she did the same gesture, even walking towards him and looking upon him with challenging eyes. “Where in the world have you been, how many centuries have you been wandering around this cruel world, yet you haven't discovered that your world was not only fulfilled by glories and gold?!" she almost lost her voice. "Beat me in this argument then I'l let you go—or, I'll go by myself. I would love to."

Antonio chuckled bitterly, slowly he bowed and covered his face with his battleworn, sweaty palm.

"Devil."

"We all are ones." She tiptoed and whispered. "You lost both in the chain of battles to keep your empire vast and glorious; also our fight," a hand grabbed his shoulder, "because that's how the real world works. Loss follows embraces; hatred sometimes comes from love—and everything arrives in a package."

This was his Isabeau.

She won.

Because she had lost the live and lovely Antonio before this.

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: still open for correction! o/ (fyi, this story is centered upon portuguese independence from spanish habsburg)


End file.
